"Please tell me you're kidding," Joey implored through his cell phone as his car turned the corner into the USAir parking lot.
"How many different ways do you want me to tell you?" Debbie asked. As a USAir ticket agent, Debbie was used to dealing with irate customers. But as Joey's oldest high school friend, she knew she couldn't ignore that customer and send him to the back of the line. The computer is dead, the whole system has crashed. Stop pitying me. Everything will be solved in ten minutes.
"I don't have ten minutes, Debbie," Joey said, parking with a squeal of tires in an empty space. I need that information now.
"Yeah, well, I need a bra that lifts my breasts and a husband who remembers how to curl my toes in bed, but sometimes you have to make do with what's there."
"What about frequent flyer mileage?" Can you track them through that data?
"Joey, the computers are dead, all that information is on the same system. Also, how do you know if those people have traveled with USAir?
"Why else would someone leave their car in the USAir parking lot?" Joey asked, turning off the engine. Taking one last look at the tiny blue triangle on the electronic screen, she got out of the car, squinting at the sun slowly rising on the horizon, and feverishly surveyed the packed parking lot. According to the data on the screen, the car should be...
Over there.
On the corner… near the terminal—Gallo's government-owned dark blue Ford—parked illegally in a handicapped space.
Shit," Joey muttered as he walked around and got his things out of the trunk. The metal briefcase under one arm; the duffel bag under the other. With the small earpiece still dangling from his ear, he ran toward the terminal, trying not to lose his balance. He ran across the crosswalk, forcing two taxi drivers to slam on their horns. What if you search the list of banknotes issued by the government? Or on the passenger list? Him," he asked Debbie. Isn't that how you found out who Marsha's fucking husband was sitting next to?
"How do I have to tell you so it gets into your big head, Joey?" Everything is in the same...
—What about the LEO list? Joey asked, referring to the airline's list of law enforcement officers who travel on their planes. Don't they have to fill out special forms if they want to travel with their weapons?
At the other end of the phone line there was a brief pause. "You know what…" Debbie began. Wait a second. Let me knock on the door...
Joey dashed through the automatic doors, ignored the baggage carousel, turned right, and took the escalator up the escalator two steps at a time. Arriving upstairs, along the ticket counters, he surveyed the scattered crowd of early risers. A businessman in a wrinkled suit, a high schooler in an oversized T-shirt, an old woman in a pale yellow turtleneck, but no one who looked like Gallo or DeSanctis.
"You'd better thank the Lord for the useless government paperwork," a familiar voice said in his ear.
"Have you found them?" he asked Debbie.
"I promise sometimes I think that all this crap was made up by the CIA to keep informed of..."
-What have you...?
"According to our data, Agent James Gallo and Agent Paul DeSanctis were LEOed on our 6:27 flight to Miami.
Joey looked at his watch. 6.31. -They are...?
-Flying.
"When is the next...?"
"In an hour and a half." I've already told them to reserve you a seat on that flight as soon as the computer system is restored.
Joey shook his head ruefully and checked the screen. Miami. "Flight 412. Takeoff."
"How the hell could I lose them?"
"Don't cry," Debbie said. They only have the initial advantage.
-What floor? Charlie asks Thursday morning as we get into the elevator.
"Seventh," I say, and he hits the button. I adjust my tie; Charlie licks her hand, then squashes her tangled mass of blond hair. If we're going to get our banker papers back, we need to look to match. Next to us, Gillian is the perfect female equivalent in her long flowered skirt. When she finishes smoothing it, she looks in my direction. She let my eyes linger on her legs, I can't help but stare at them, that is, until I notice Charlie watching me. Then I fix my gaze on the ground; Charlie shakes his head. You can't fool little brothers.
The elevator stops and the doors open. In the hallway, an elegant and sober logo (for what Miami is) hangs on the wall: in the shape of a star, but with a circle at each end. The silver letters that cover the lower part of the logo confirm that we have reached our destination:
Five Points Capital, the place where Duckworth signed his agreement.
Gillian pushes away from the elevator's brass railing and steps out into the hallway. Before she can follow, Charlie grabs my arm.
"You touched her tits, right?" Her," she says in a whisper.
-What are you talking about? I ask, annoyed, as I get out of the elevator.
"Is that the best you can get?" Do you get angry but do not deny it? This time she didn't answer him.
-When it was? Last night? When did you go this morning to get the clothes?
I move away from him, turn left and head for the French doors of the reception area. Charlie is right behind me. He doesn't need to say it. From now on he won't let me out of his sight for a second.
"Are you sure you're ready?" Gillian asks, interpreting the expression on my face as fear.
"I'm fine," I say, still looking at Charlie. But when I take a deep breath, reality hits me. Charlie sees it clearly in my face. It's one thing to call and make an appointment. And another very different thing is to carry it out.
To the right of the doors there is a small sign that says "Press the bell for Reception". But it's what's above the doorbell button that catches our eye: a gray keyboard that looks like the one we have at the bank. Next to the numbers, however, there is also a flat space large enough to accommodate a thumb print. At the top it says "Biometric ID".
I press the doorbell and Charlie raises an eyebrow.
"Fingerprint recognition?" -Question-. Someone is taking themselves too seriously.
A receptionist with bouffant brown hair lets us in with a soft buzz. Charlie leads the pack, the ambassador of smiles. Every big shot needs a helper.
"Hello, we called this morning…" she says, imitating my salesperson voice and pointing my way. From Greene Bank. Mr. Lapidus has come to see Mr. Katkin.
"Of course," the woman says as she nods slightly. I'll look for you right now, Mr. Lapidus.
Charlie grinds his teeth when the receptionist says that name. "Are you sure this is correct?" she asks me with her eyes. "Trust me," I insist. Over the past four years, I've taken tons of clients through the venture capital scene. And even in Florida it takes a big name to open a big door.
Fiddling with the tie he borrowed from Duckworth, Charlie sits on the cream sofa. The instant Gillian sits down next to him, Charlie gets up and begins pacing the room. I frown at him but Charlie doesn't care.
Ignoring me, he pretends to be very interested in the view of Brickwell Avenue from the huge windows.
"Mr. Lapidus, can you sign here, please?" the receptionist asks me. She points to a computer screen next to her desk. On the screen there is a blank place for your name. I type "Henry Lapidus" and press "Enter." Behind the receptionist, a state-of-the-art laser printer concocts and spits out an identification sticker. "Henry Lapidus - Visitor." But unlike normal visitor passes, the front of this one has a liquid, almost translucent look. Beneath it, if you turn the card over to the light, the word "Expired" appears in faded red letters.
-What material is it made of? I ask, running the pad of my thumb over the smooth surface of the pass.
"Aren't they great?" the receptionist hums. After eight hours the ink on the front dissolves and the word "Expired" turns bright red.
I nod, impressed.
"We have no choice," the receptionist says with a smile. I mean... considering who our partners are...
"Naturally…" Charlie says, forcing his own fake laugh out of him.
"Definitely," I add.
We both look at the woman. She returns our gaze. We are inscrutable.
—And what is it like to work with them? Charlie asks, searching for details.
-Honestly? It's nothing from the other world. I expected them to appear in dark suits and sunglasses, but they are like any mortal, they put on their jackets one sleeve after the other.
Charlie looks at me; I look at Gillian.
"The only difference is that now government jackets are coming," the woman adds with a laugh.
The expression freezes on her face.
"Are they part of the government?"
"Not directly, but..." Breaking off, the woman adds. Whoops, sorry, I thought you knew. It's all in our clippings…" she says, handing me an advertising brochure in a moss-green folder.
I open the folder as Charlie and Gillian read over my shoulder. There it is, on the first page: "Welcome to Five Points Capital, the hedge fund of the United States Secret Service." Behind us a door opens.
"Mr. Lapidus?" asks a baritone voice. The three of us turn and a tall military man with thick forearms shakes our hands. A gold presidential seal is visible on his watch. Brandt Katkin — introduces himself. Please... come in.
-Secret Service. Martha speaks to him.
"Hello, Marta," Quincy said calmly into the receiver. I'm looking for Agent Jim Gallo...
—Wait a minute, I'll put you through a supervis...
—I don't want it to happen to anyone, they've already done it twice. Sitting with both hands clasped tightly on the desk, Quincy was determined not to lose his cool. After the partners' meeting last night… there had been enough screaming. Even threats. Now, however, was the time to hold on. The supervisor I spoke to put me through Agent Gallo's voice mail. But that doesn't do me any good," he explained patiently. Could you find Agent Gallo for me, please? It is an emergency.
"Is anyone in physical danger, sir?"
"No, but he...
"Then Agent Gallo will contact you as soon as he returns."
Quincy gripped the receiver until his knuckles turned white as the fingers of his other hand drummed against the glass bowl of candy on the corner of the desk. The candies were for customers only. It made men feel like children. Beyond the crystal bowl—through the glass panel next to his office door—Quincy could see the stream of people coming and going on the seventh floor. At the opposite end, the door to Lapidus's office was flung open and his associate rushed out into the hallway. When Lapidus walked like that, there was only one place where he led his footsteps.
"Ma'am, I'm afraid you don't understand," Quincy insisted. I need to find Agent Gallo. Now.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but the supervisor put his call through and Agent Gallo is not at his desk."
"Agent Gallo obviously isn't at his desk, so I need to know where he is."
"Still, sir, we don't supply that kind of information."
"But suppose Agent Gallo..."
"I'm sorry, sir, but there's nothing I can do.
-But...
-I'm sorry Mr. Have a nice day.
There was a click on the line and a knock on the door. Quincy was holding the receiver to his ear when Lapidus entered the office.
"Yeah... no... you don't have to worry, everything's under control," Quincy said through the mute earpiece. Very good... Thanks, Jim... I'll call you later.
"Have you been able to find Gallo?" Lapidus asked when Quincy hung up the receiver.
"Ask and it will be given to you."
"And what did he tell you?" Lapidus asked.
Nothing really, he didn't want to go into details.
"Do you know where they are?"
"Hard to say," Quincy said, picking up a piece of candy. But if I had to guess, I'd say it won't be long...it's just a matter of waiting.
"Brandt Katkin, it's nice to meet you," he says as he shakes our hands.
"Jeff Liszt," I say, using another of the bank's names. Katkin glances at my ID card, which reads Lapidus.
"Sorry…" Charlie chimes in, exactly as we've rehearsed. Mr. Lapidus was running late, so we asked Mr. Liszt to join us in his place...
"No, please, no problem," Katkin says, too polite to reveal even a hint of annoyance. In the world of venture capital, where a name is dropped and makes an instant impression, Katkin is more than used to casting the bait and pulling the line. As he leads us back to his office, he follows a winding course through the gray corridors of the corporation. I lead, followed by Gillian. Charlie brings up the rear.